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theGreatxIam

Scout's Honor
Chapter 1 (of 10)
By theGreatxIam

It was my wife who got me involved with the Girl
Scouts. Back before we ever saw a fertility doctor.

She just loved kids and couldn't wait for a daughter of
her own. At first she only helped out a friend of her
mom's who had a 12-year-old, going along on field
trips, bringing apple pandowdy to the bake sale. Pretty
soon she was helping so much they named her an
assistant troop leader.

By then we'd guessed there was something wrong; we'd
been trying for three years with no success. We talked
to our regular doctors first and tried some simple
techniques.

I guess that's when I started pitching in with the
girls. At first I was just a chauffeur, piling girls in
the back of my old Scout. Or I'd help set up the chairs
for meetings. As time went by it was harder to get
parents to show up -- more moms were working, and those
with more than one kid had to be two or three places at
once with soccer and karate classes and computer camp.
More and more, my wife, Jean, found herself all alone
with other people's kids. I spent more and more time
helping her. Edited the troop newsletter. Did sketches
of the girls for them to frame -- I had noodled with
pencils or charcoal since I was a kid, and the scouts
got such a kick out of posing.

I started helping more partly because I felt sorry for
her, trying to organize activities all on her own.
Partly because I knew it had to be tough on her
watching someone else's daughters grow up. Partly
because I felt a gap, too.

We were working with a specialist then, and Jean had
had her first miscarriage. It tore us up because we'd
gotten our hopes so high. Working with the scouts --
well, it was just nice to hear girlish laughter.

Mostly I helped because it meant more time with Jean.

I loved her. That's supposed to say it all, but it
sounds so trite compared with what we had. She was my
life. I loved her when she was all dressed up, satin
heels and silk gown, blonde hair done up. I loved her
first thing in the morning, padding down for her first
cup of coffee, dawning sun making a halo of her tousled
hair. I loved her working in the garden, dirt on her
knees and a bloom on her cheeks. I loved her with the
flu, trailing tissues through the house, nose bright
red. I loved the way she always found the most
complicated way to accomplish any task. The way she'd
cut off my bemused explanations of why her plans
couldn't work by planting a long, sweet kiss on me.
Jean was everything to me.

Jean was ...

Jean was.

It was the year after she'd formally been named troop
leader, after the last recalcitrant Scout moms had
admitted that if they couldn't show up for even a third
of the meetings, they couldn't very well refuse to
accept someone who was there every time, not just
because she didn't have a child of her own.

With that wall broken down, the girls themselves even
tried to have me named assistant leader. Some moms
would have had apoplexy and the district office would
have gone ballistic, and Jean didn't need the headache.
I thanked the girls and just kept showing up.

Jean's second miscarriage had happened almost before we
knew she was pregnant. We started talking about
adopting then. But then the Scout thing came up and
there were meetings to plan. I think we really both
needed time to grieve.

So when Jean became pregnant a third time we were
caught by surprise -- happy, but also scared. Jean took
it very careful; she cut back her hours at work and
then took her accumulated sick time and vacation days
all at once to see her through the rest of her
pregnancy. Her boss didn't have to let her do that --
he knew she intended to quit once her insurance had
paid for the special prenatal care that mine wouldn't.
But people always seemed to want to do things like that
for Jean.

She was going to have to put the Scout troop aside for
the last few months, too. She hated to do it, but she
would do anything for our baby. And she could always
take things in stride. She lived by the words on the
faded T-shirt she wore almost every weekend (until her
burgeoning stomach wouldn't allow it). "Life," it said,
"is what happens to you while you're making other
plans."

But before she went into total baby waiting mode, she
insisted on leading one last event -- the annual
camping trip.

Jean had brought back the tradition a few years before.
It had died off when a new generation of moms lost
interest in spending three days with bugs and without
central air. But Jean was a throwback who talked about
being one with nature and the confidence girls could
get from surviving in the wild, even if the "wild" was
only two hours from home. Those arguments -- and her
agreement to run the whole thing herself -- had
convinced the moms. So every August I'd rent an
extended van full of a dozen or so giggling junior high
and high school girls; Jean would follow along in the
Scout with their equipment. At the campsite I'd help
unload and set up, then drive the Scout back home. The
van was left with them just in case -- but it would
take a real emergency for Jean to get behind the wheel
of the van. Even the Scout bothered her, which was why
I was the designated driver for all the troop
activities. The girls had even gotten me a vintage bus
driver's cap one Christmas.

Jean was especially nervous about the Scout on that
last trip, worried about lifting her burgeoning stomach
up into the driver's seat. I was more concerned about
her spending the weekend in the woods in her condition.
Finally we compromised; I rented a big yellow school
bus for the girls, the equipment and Jean. After we set
up the camp, I drove up the road to an abandoned
factory's parking lot where I would spend the weekend
-- close enough to rush over if something happened, but
far enough away to preserve the girls' sense of being
on their own.

The girls felt sorry for me, all alone on the bus, and
kept calling me on our walkie-talkies, telling me about
the snake they saw on the trail or how cold the water
was when they went swimming. I bent the rules we'd
agreed on Saturday night by showing up back at the
campsite with ice cream. It was really an excuse to
check on Jean, but the girls' self-confidence didn't
seem to be harmed.

That was Jean's last Scouting event before what she
assured the girls would be a brief temporary absence.
She waited until the ride home to share her most
exciting news with them: Our baby was a girl. Actually,
it was two: twins! The squeals of glee made the old bus
ring.

Even after that it was hard to keep Jean at home in
bed. The next meeting, she pleaded with me: just let
her go to the next meeting. It was special because this
was the fashion show, another one of Jean's ideas. The
girls had been working on their outfits for months. The
assistant troop leader, a mom who seemed more
interested in turning the girls into super saleswomen
than letting them have fun, hadn't been too
enthusiastic about taking it over. I had to keep
reminding Jean that I was still going to be there.
Actually, I'd volunteered to run the whole thing
myself, which was what finally convinced the assistant
to step up.

The day of the meeting, I began to regret my promise.
Jean seemed under the weather, and I didn't want to
leave her. I was about to call the assistant and beg
off when she called me to do the same. Said she had
worked late the day before and didn't feel like doing
the meeting.

I turned and told Jean, and I knew she wasn't feeling
great because she didn't immediately insist on going
herself. But she did tell me to take over. I repeated
the offer to the assistant leader, expecting her to
argue about bringing in another mom. Instead, she told
me she'd already started the phone tree to cancel the
meeting. And then she hung up.

Jean was furious, but she didn't have any force behind
it. I was getting her a cup of herbal tea when the
phone rang. The girls were in shock and in tears.
Several of them had been together when the call came,
and they'd called us in disbelief. It wasn't long
before Jean had it all arranged: A fashion show in our
basement. I'd emcee; I made her promise to stay
upstairs in bed, on the assurance I'd send the girls up
one by one in their designs.

Traci was the third girl I sent upstairs, a 15-year-old
who worshipped Jean. She'd made a prom dress, lavender
sheath with chiffon trim -- or so said the notes I'd
used as emcee. She went up the stairs smiling, excited
about showing her creation to Jean.

She came down screaming. We rushed Jean to the hospital
and several of the girls stayed in the emergency room's
waiting area with me.

I appreciated their company, but I was grateful they
were gone, picked up by their parents, when the surgeon
came by. I knew just from his face.

One of our daughters survived. I took a leave of
absence and moved into a small apartment the hospital
keeps for patients' relatives. After a month it began
to feel like home. After two, like hell. Our little
daughter Jean never saw her fourth month.

The next year is a blur. I remember only a few moments,
like photos in an album: the scouts marching in
procession, standing next to Jean's grave with the tiny
casket, nights alone staring at the walls. Lots of
nights like that. After a few months I tried to get
involved with the scouts again -- that was so important
to Jean, I thought it would fill some of the void. Plus
I just missed the girls. The moms in charge were
apologetic, but said they already had enough help.

That's not what I heard from the girls, who kept in
touch with me. They were careful to try to be cheerful
with me, but it was clear the troop wasn't the same --
fewer meetings, fewer trips. They even cancelled the
annual campout. No surprise, then, that the membership
started declining.

The calls and visits from the girls became less
frequent as they moved on to other activities and new
friends. I was lonely, but also a little relieved. The
girls were growing into very pretty young women and I
was growing -- well, I have to say it -- hornier. It
was all those years of trying for a baby with constant
sex, I guess. Or maybe I was just sick. The feelings
had come on gradually as the shock of Jean's death wore
off. For years I'd had eyes only for her, and she'd
fulfilled all my desires. Now an aching longing grew. I
was afraid of what I might do, and guilty about wanting
someone other than Jean. I'd made no moves on anyone,
but I worried that if the girls were around too much
I'd lose control.

I think that I grew a little distant just to be safe.
Some of the girls clearly worried about me, but I
certainly couldn't tell them what was wrong. I counted
on time to ease my pain and lead them away.

As it was getting close to the second anniversary of
Jean's death I started adjusting to being a widower. At
least that's what I called it. My doctor called it
giving up on life. I spent most of my time at home. It
worked for me: My urges ebbed with time -- in fact, I
lost most of my desire for the company of other people.

When the call came, then, my initial reaction was to
say no. Not even for the girls.

Eventually they talked me into it. Call it nostalgia,
call it a tribute to Jean's memory, call it good-bye.
The old Scout troop was giving up its charter. Some of
the last scouts, and even a few who'd left, had planned
one last camping trip. They wanted me to be the driver,
for old times' sake. The old cap they'd given me came
out one more time.

I picked up the yellow school bus at the rental place
and drove to the school parking lot. The bus quickly
became a beehive, with parents and scouts piling in
equipment while girls who weren't coming along showed
up just to say good-bye. I was so busy greeting girls
that I never was able to work out arrangements with the
moms who were going to be chaperoning. The girls who'd
handled all the planning had said two moms were going
along and I'd be picking everyone up at the end, but I
was never able to nail down whether I'd be driving the
bus back and forth, or borrowing some mom's car, or
what.

I wasn't all that thrilled about talking to the women
anyway -- too many bad memories of how they'd treated
Jean, too many questions about how they'd killed what I
thought of as her troop.

So when the bustle died down and the girls said it was
time to go, I put the bus in gear and took off on the
old, familiar route.

Traci sat across from me, with other girls coming up to
chat one after another. I couldn't see any moms on the
bus; figured they were driving up on their own.

As we reminisced, I had a chance to get reacquainted
with the scouts. There were a dozen on board, plus a
lot more gear than I remembered. But I guess you have
to figure older girls are going to bring more stuff
along, even if there aren't any boys involved.

And this was an older group, girls who'd been
especially close to Jean because they'd been together
so long.

Carrie and Terry were the oldest, a couple months shy
of 21. I could still tell them apart by the patterns of
the freckles that blazed across their cheeks, but they
could have fooled anyone who didn't know them as well.
They had grown up in perfect sync -- they even lost
teeth at the same time, though I always had my
suspicions that they might have helped that along. Now
they were equally beautiful, 5'11 with coltishly long
legs they wrapped underneath themselves in mirror image
when they came up front to talk to me. Tomboys in their
youth, they were both on the college basketball team
and both studying chemical engineering. But they still
giggled in unison at my puns.

Sereka, at 20, and her sister Tishana, 18, were the
sophisticates of the troop, coming back from vacations
with stories about Paris or Dakar. Almost as tall as
the twins, Sereka was studying French Lit and planning
for springtime in Provence. Her dark-chocolate skin had
grown clearer with age and she looked like a polished
ebony idol. Tishana, who still squeaked in protest when
I called her Tish, had more of her father's looks --
broad nose, pillowy lips, milk chocolate skin.

With Sereka in college, Tishana told me she now spent a
lot of time with the other sisterly pair on the bus --
Sami and Claire. Sami was Korean, adopted just as her
new mom learned of an unexpected -- in fact, supposedly
impossible -- pregnancy. The girls' mom was the only
one who had truly accepted Jean, because she understood
our pain. It had been a terrible pain when her marriage
split apart and she'd had to take on a second job to
make up for her deadbeat ex's missing child support; I
know Jean had missed having her around.

Sami and Claire showed no ill effects, though -- a
tribute to their mom's abilities. Sami, at 18, had lost
her adolescent angst about her body. She was never
going to be a sylph like those anorexic models, but
then they would never have her amazing natural curves.
All the girls had dressed for the occasion in their old
Girl Scout blouses; Sami, with her blouse tied above
her tummy, made it look better than a bikini. Claire
was the quiet sister, always tagging along with Sami
and letting her lead the way. She'd even dyed her hair
darker to match Sami's. Now, at 17, she seemed ready to
be her own person. She'd let her hair return to its
normal shade -- or perhaps helped it along and made it
a tad or two lighter? As a honey blonde, with her big
smile and sparkling blue eyes, she was hard to take
your eyes off.

Traci, of course, was also 17 now, and the unofficial
leader. The others made it clear that she'd been the
driving force behind this trip and had overseen all the
arrangements. She certainly seemed mature enough. It
wasn't just the way she kept the conversation going,
giving every girl a chance to talk with me, prodding
the shy ones. It was the way she looked, too. I'd seen
her a few times since Jean passed, but my image of her
had frozen on that fateful day when Traci had come down
the stairs screaming. No longer, though, was she the
puppy-fat kid on the edge of adulthood. She'd shed some
pounds and all the awkwardness. Her grey eyes looked
confidently out over chiseled cheekbones and ruby-red
lids; her blouse and cutoffs wrapped around a very
grown-up figure.

The two other 17-year-olds had been inseparable friends
since diapers: Sue and SueTwo (Sue had 12 days'
seniority and claimed the name first). They were both
just over five feet, both had bubbly personalities --
they shared the cheerleading captain's slot -- and both
had revered Jean for having a vast collection of
Broadway tunes, which I'd split between them. They
excitedly told me that they'd had leading roles in
their school's production of "West Side Story." That
was a natural for Sue Two, a Latina with short, full
black hair, flashing brown eyes and a bronze complexion
that made you think of Rio. It must have been a stretch
for Sue, who had the classic cheerleader look: long,
blonde hair in a ponytail, deep blue eyes.

Equally exotic was Sri, 16 now. She'd had to overcome
her mom's fear that too much Western culture would make
Sri forget her Pakistani roots. Not much chance of that
when her face, with its high cheekbones and dark,
deep-set eyes spoke languidly of the subcontinent.

Lana, on the other hand, would have been right at home
in Rome. Her olive skin and wavy black hair were a
throwback to old movie stars like Gina Lollobrigida.
But she didn't have the old, lush figure. Lana had the
trim, carefully sculpted body of a figure skater --
which she had been until, she told me solemnly, she
retired -- at age 16.

Finally, there was Michelle, who everyone called Baby.
The youngest, at 15, she was the most hyper on the bus
at first, bouncing back and forth offering sodas and
snacks. As we drove on, she calmed down -- or maybe, I
thought, she was realizing just what this trip
represented. After all, as the youngest, she still
should have had Scouting in her future, rising to
leadership. Now it was ending before her time. Well, I
thought, at least she looks more thoughtful than
anything else -- no tears; she just curled up in a
corner of the seat behind Traci and stared at me from
behind her long, curly lashes.

As we neared the campsite, all the girls quieted down
and gathered at the front of the bus. We'd been a
little delayed by all the fuss at the start, but still
it was before 1 in the afternoon when I pulled into our
old, isolated lot.

The girls started unloading. To all my questions about
where the moms were, their answers were vague. I
pitched in and we had everything set up quickly. Baby
and Sri got a fire going and we had toasted cheese
sandwiches and banana S'mores -- Jean's invention, with
slices of banana between the chocolate and the
marshmallow. Still no moms. I said I'd stick around
until they showed up. I wasn't much of a guardian,
though, because I just stretched out on a cot they'd
set up in one of the tents -- for a mom, I figured, but
if she was going to be so late I guessed she couldn't
complain.

I meant to just close my eyes, but things got quiet as
the girls went off in groups to gather wood and such. I
couldn't have been napping for more than a few minutes
when something woke me up.

Carrie and Terry were walking into the tent, ducking
low to ease their long frames under the canvas. I
raised up on one arm; even with them bent over it was a
stretch to look up at them.

"Caught me," I said with a smile. "Are the troop
leaders here? Time for me to go?"

Terry shook her head and squatted on the ground next to
me. Carrie cleared a space on an old crate that had
been set up as a table at the head of the cot. As she
sat, she pulled a length of thin rope from a pocket of
her dark blue culottes. She rolled it in her long,
slender fingers. "Remember when you taught us to tie
knots?" She batted her eyes as she said it. Carrie had
been, without a doubt, the worst knot-tier ever, and
our private joke was that I really couldn't tie either;
I'd taught the girls from a book.

Carrie tried to do some kind of slipknot, but it fell
apart and all three of us laughed. We used to say any
knot she tied was a slipknot, because she'd look at it
as it fell apart and giggle, "Oops, it slipped." It
looked as if she hadn't gotten any better.

Terry gave an exasperated sigh, just like always, and
took the rope from her sister's hands. Carrie produced
another rope from somewhere and invited me to try.
"Those who can't, teach," I said, shaking my head.

But it was Terry who took over the teaching. With
Carrie trying to mimic her motions, Terry twisted the
rope into a shape that seemed vaguely familiar, but was
certainly beyond my abilities. She tossed the finished
knot to Carrie, who had managed to come up with
something that at least looked right. And I had to give
her credit; when she held up both knots, neither one
slipped. I asked to see them, reaching out my hands.

Instead of handing me the knots, Carrie slid a loop of
each one over my wrists. Suddenly Terry was pushing me
over on my back and my arms were being tugged above my
head.

I thought it was a harmless prank until Terry started
unbuttoning her blouse.

I stuttered out a puzzled protest as Carrie crawled
over next to her twin and began to undress too. Terry
put a finger to my lips to shush me.

"We suspected you'd say you couldn't," she whispered.
"That's what the knots are for."

I tugged at my arms; they'd tied them to the cot. I
could only lie there, helpless, as the twins disrobed.

They were side by side, on their knees, as they undid
their last buttons and slipped their blouses off one
shoulder, then the other, revealing creamy white skin.
When they uncrossed their arms and let the blouses fall
to the ground, their breasts stood out -- four
identical grapefruit-sized white hillocks, each capped
by a slightly conical ring of light brown skin and a
perky pink nipple. Heaven help me, I was instantly
erect. And they noticed.

Terry brushed her hand gently over my crotch. My cock
twitched. "Don't do this," I said, forcing the words
through clenched teeth.

Terry only smiled and stroked me. My cock began to ache
from confinement.

Carrie, with her blouse off, twisted and turned until
she'd shed her shoes and socks, then her culottes and
panties. I saw it all, the flat stomach, flaring hips,
the small tuft of ginger hair ... I wanted to look
away, wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't.

When Carrie was completely nude she put her hand on me,
stroking, while Terry removed the rest of her clothes.

Naked, they were still identical; even the hair over
their pussies was the same shade, in the same shape.
And the tan lines -- only down below -- showed they
wore identical thongs. "Why?" I asked, expecting no
answer.

"Later," Terry promised as she pulled off my shoes and
socks.

I twisted around but the girls were too strong,
grabbing my legs and yanking off my pants after Carrie
undid my belt and zipper.

Carrie slowly unbuttoned my shirt from the bottom up,
pausing between every button to pull the shirt apart
and plant light kisses on my chest. Terry's soft hands
massaged my legs, inching higher and higher.

As Carrie reached the last button, Terry's fingertips
brushed the base of my cock, which was already waggling
almost straight up. As Carrie kissed her way up my
neck, Terry's fingers encircled my shaft. The sharp
sensation of Carrie's tongue flitting into my ear
mingled with the feel of Terry's hot breath on my rod
as her hands squeezed its length.

And Carrie's mouth closed over mine just as Terry's
lips brushed the tip of my cock and slid down to the
shaft.

I could not escape Terry, but I tried to seal my lips
against Carrie's insistent kiss. No use; she forced her
tongue into me and my resistance ceased.

They were almost 21, my brain assured me in a hasty,
feverish rationalization -- not kids anymore. Who was I
hurting?

I didn't waste much time on convincing myself, though.
The twins' hot mouths were persuasive enough.

Carrie's mouth devoured mine, her tongue wrestling as
she pressed her face to me, hands cradling my head.

Terry, meanwhile, was easing more and more of my cock
into her throat on every stroke until her lips reached 
my root, her nose buried in my short hairs. Then slowly
she slid back, lips pursed tight, tongue trailing along
the ultrasensitive underside. Halfway up she paused,
sliding her tongue up to the rim of the bulbous tip. I
had to twist my head away from Carrie and gasp for
breath as Terry's tongue sizzled all over the head of
my cock. Silent screams crushed my chest and I shut my
eyes so tight I saw a rainbow of fireworks as Terry
slid her lips completely off me, a strand of precum
stretching between us, and then came back down, letting
my cock pry apart her lids and slide in deeper and
deeper, to the very root again.

She continued to suck me as Carrie fluttered kisses
over my cheeks, my forehead, my eyelids. My legs
stretched out, toes pointed, with Terry's lips driving
me wild.

Just as I thought I was nearing the peak, though, Terry
slid off me one last time and sat back.

I groaned, but Terry only traced a fingertip down my
right leg and moved away.

Carrie took her lips from me, too, but only long enough
to climb on top of me. She stretched her long body over
mine, holding herself up on her hands and knees so our
torsos barely made contact. Her nipples, stiff pink
buttons, teased my chest before she let herself down a
little more and massaged me with her breasts, rolling
them up and down, side to side. All the while her bush
rubbed against mine and I could feel her pussy lips,
already hot and wet, brushing my shaft.

When she raised up slightly so again her taut nipples
were barely touching me, her wavy red hair fell from
her shoulders, sweeping across my face. It was a
whisper of a touch, leaving a faint scent of peaches in
its wake. Her lips sought out mine in soft kisses that
were like holding a dove in your hands.

Terry knelt beside the cot, reaching out to caress her
sister and me. I was lost in the moment, all hesitation
and doubt abandoned. My only thoughts were of the
nubile goddesses who had graced me with their
attentions.

The sweet feel of Carrie's flesh on mine was so
wonderful that I was almost disappointed when she
pushed herself into a squat over me. Only almost,
because she quickly lifted up and Terry grasped my
cock, rubbing it across her sister's wet cunt lips. And
then she held it steady as Carrie slowly, smoothly slid
down, taking me deep into her in one languid movement.
As Terry fingered her twin's clit, Carrie flexed her
cunt muscles, giving me an intimate, rippling massage.

Her tits hung tantalizingly before me. When she began
to hump me, their bouncing mesmerized me. I began to
pull my hands up to touch them, but the ropes still
held me fast -- or so I thought.

"Just tug," Terry said. I did, and the ropes fell away
easily.

"We thought you'd resist at first," Terry said.

"But we figured it wouldn't last long," Carrie added.

I smiled as I stretched my arms in the air, working out
the kinks. "Pretty sure of yourselves?"

"Well, we knew you never could resist a little Girl
Scout cookie," Terry said.

Carrie completed the thought: "So how could you pass up
a little Girl Scout nookie?"

I laughed as my hands approached Carrie's jiggling
tits. They fit neatly in my palms; I rolled her nipples
around as she rode me. I rolled my hips in time with
her bouncing. She was no virgin, though her cunt was
tight. Carrie knew just when to speed up or slow down,
just how to twist and shake on my pole to produce the
maximum effect.

My hands roamed Carrie's svelte form, exploring her
curves. The fine, ginger down on her arms felt like
velvet.

Terry, meanwhile, got to her feet. I had the incredible
vision before me: two identical nymphs, naked as the
day they were born. Their firm tits pressed together as
they began to kiss, first gently and then harder and
more passionately, tongues intertwining. And all the
while Carrie continued to hump me, sliding up and down
my rigid cock. I squeezed her slim hips, pressing
myself further into her boiling cunt.

Faster and faster we fucked, my hardness against her
softness. All too soon I felt my cum rise, closer, and
then it spurted up into Carrie's pussy, one great hot
blast, a second.

As I shrank, Carrie eased herself off me and slid off
the cot onto the floor of the tent. She and her twin
sister slithered into a 69. It was like an Escher
interlocking pattern come to life, tongue to cunt.
Their long legs scissored around each other's head as
they lapped away, the tent filling with their musk.

I began to grow afraid that someone would hear their
orgiastic moans. Then I realized that we must have been
going at it for some time. We'd been quiet, or as quiet
as three people screwing one another's brains out can
be. But still, you'd think someone would have noticed
before now. As Carrie and Terry reached mutual orgasms,
a sickening thought occurred to me: the moms! Where
were they? Certainly they should have arrived by now.
Had they spied on me and called the cops? The twins
were of age, but there had to be something illegal
about fucking in a Girl Scout camp.

I looked around for my pants, figuring I should at
least be decent for my arrest. Then I saw them --
trapped under the twins' naked bodies as they uncurled
and kissed. I tugged at one pant leg. Terry looked at
me, her face slathered with her sister's juices.

"You'd better get dressed," I hissed. "The moms should
be here, shouldn't they?"

A voice from the tent opening startled me. Traci stood
in the entrance, head ducked slightly to fit under the
flap.

"They aren't coming."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The moms. They aren't coming. They never were."

To be continued ...